The Cheeseburger Betrayal
by jmr27
Summary: A series of humorous one-shots involving the boys. Dean bites into the worst burger ever. A dog steals Dean's candy. Sam and Dean are trapped in a bingo game. And more! Newest chapter involves Wee!chesters.
1. Cheeseburger Betrayal

**The Cheeseburger Betrayal**

Another day, another hunt, another greasy burger joint. Dean leaned back in his chair, but resisted the urge to put his feet on the table. Peanut shells littered the floor. Cigarette smoke choked the air. A layer of sticky slime covered the tabletop.

None of it mattered. Shiny and polished or roach-infested, Dean didn't care. Whether they cooked all of their food out of a can, or made it from scratch with ingredients fresh from organic farms, it didn't change things. Some burgers were better than others, it was true. But beef is beef, and it was always good. Dean's mouth was watering just thinking about the dinner headed his way.

Sam plopped down in the chair next to him, and tossed a wax-paper wrapped sphere at him, accompanied by a cardboard carton of squishy fries. Sam had a plastic bowl full of wilted greens. He looked at it with a frown.

"Should've gotten a burger, brother." Dean unwrapped his burger and sniffed. Something wasn't right.

"They were out of the one you wanted, so I got you mushroom and swiss." Sam stirred half a container of dressing over his salad, coating the greens in creamy goo.

Mushroom and swiss? Always a good combination. Dean smiled at the burger, dripping with dark sauce, and opened is mouth for a bite.

Sour grease exploded over his taste buds. Globs of slime mingled with gristle assaulted his teeth. Crunch! A bit of bone lodged in one molar. Fake mushroom flavoring overpowered his nose with a putrid scent that washed all other taste away.

Blech!

Dean opened his mouth and spat the burger back out, glaring at the half-chewed mess of meat. He held one hand over his stomach as if to guard it from the offending thing lying on the table.

Sam stared, a bit of salad hanging out of his open mouth. He threw his head back and laughed so hard he nearly choked. "Should've had a salad, brother."

 **NOTE:** This story is based on true events. My roommate came home one day and very graphically described the horrors of the burger she had bought for lunch, and the look on her face... It was too funny to watch (not that I find her pain amusing or anything) and I thought...that sounds like Dean.


	2. Bingo Explosion

**The Bingo Explosion**

Breakfast and groceries. It wasn't often that they were able to get two in one. Usually, Dean had to drive them to the diner for breakfast, and then the filling station for fuel and road food. But today, they'd landed in a Hy-Vee; a breakfast buffet at the small dinning area, all the organic groceries Sam could want, and a gas pump on the other side of the parking lot. Dean sat back and sipped his coffee, well satisfied with the morning. This promised to be a good day.

Across the booth, Sam sipped absently at his coffee, nose buried in a lore book, research for the hunt they were driving toward. Dean eyed the last bit of bacon, his mouth debating with his very full stomach over the pros and cons of taste vs. indigestion.

Someone sat down on the end of the booth bench beside him. "You don't mind if I steal a seat here, do you dear?" she asked, even though she was already settled. Her face was sagging with wrinkles, and her colorful clothing screamed, "I'm retired and loving the party." She hung the handle of her cane off the end of the table and pushed the empty breakfast plates to one side.

"Mind? Uh…" Dean wasn't sure what had just happened, but he had a funny feeling he'd just been caught in the middle of-something. He'd been so engrossed in his breakfast, he hadn't noticed the crowd filing in. They were slow moving, gray haired, armed with walkers and canes and large hand-bags. Nothing Dean couldn't handle, if it came to that.

Two more women of similar age crowded in beside Sam. They slapped large cards down on the table, filled with letters and numbers in large print, and spilled a pile of beans in the center. Their hands hovered over the beans, the way runners hover over the starting blocks waiting for the gun.

"Alright, ladies, may the best girl win."

Dean craned his neck to see over the mass of permed gray curls beside him. The entire dinning area as full of senior citizens, their heads bent over Bingo cards. There wasn't any empty seat in the house, and a few folks had even settled on the seats on their walkers, Bingo cards balanced in their laps.

"What is happening?" Dean looked to his brother for help, but Sam's expression, slack jawed and dazed, mirrored his own.

"Um…Bingo, I think."

"B, 24!" There was a teenager in a white button-up with a microphone and a bowl full of tokens standing near the cash register. Dean had been too busy with breakfast to notice her setting up.

"G, 43. Remember, folks, only one winning card at a time. Prizes are first come first serve. No, Harry, you can't have won yet, I've only called two numbers. I, 30."

"Aw, fudge." The woman beside Dean snapped her fingers and pounded her bean against the table in disgust.

"Pearl, if you're gonna cuss, do it right." The woman across from her was using her nail to scratch off a bit of her 38, to make it look more like a five.

"Essie, if you're gonna cheat, do it right." The woman sandwiched next to Sam pulled out a bottle of white-out. "I want that canned Spam, and I'll be damned if Elmer swipes it from me again."

"Uh, Spam costs, like, a dollar," Sam said. Dean glanced at the prize shelf. It was all canned, non-perishable food, and none of it was worth more than $5.

"Aw, you're sweet dear, but that's not the point. Where's your card?"

"We were just having breakfast…"

"Breakfast? At this hour?" The ladies all snickered. "As soon as we're done here, we're having lunch. Winner's treat."

"Yeah, it'll be quite the canned food feast. I can see why you want that Spam." Dean pushed his plate, and the last bit of bacon, aside. "It's been lovely, ladies, but we need to go…"

As one, three pairs of bifocals turned on him, scandalized. No one moved. If they moved, they might miss the next number called. Dean swallowed and held up his hands peaceably. If he wanted to escape, Dean was going to have to lift them bodily. And probably get hit over the head with a handbag in the process.

Essie slapped two more cards down on the table, right in front of Sam and Dean. "There, you've got plenty of time to jump in."

Dean began to shake his head. "I don't think we…"

"Don't worry, you can buy the next round." Pearl pushed a pile of beans their way.

"O, 69."

"Hey, I got one." Sam placed a bean on his card, then tapped Dean's. "You did too."

Essie tut-tutted and shook her head. "Look at them, being all nice. They'll soon learn." She plucked a bean from Pearls card while the other woman's head was turned.

Two hours later, Sam and Dean walked through the Hy-Vee parking lot, each carrying an armful of canned food.

"I totally won," Dean said. "I got the green beans, fried onions, and mushroom soup. We can make a whole meal with this."

"No." Sam shook his head. "I have five cans, you only have three. I won more rounds than you."

"Sammy!" Dean's tone was patronizing. "It's not about how many you win, it's about how big you win. You have, what, canned carrots and a bag of prunes? Yuck."

"Prunes are good for you. Besides. I got the Spam."

Dean grinned. "Yeah, and I had to steal it back from Essie three times. You owe me."

They reached the car and dumped their trophies in the back seat. Sam paused before opening his door. "What do you think Dad would have said, if he saw that?"

The thought of John Winchester, trapped by the cutthroat Bingo team, nearly made Dean laugh out loud. "He'd have gone for the pickled pig's feet, Sam. You know that."

 **NOTE: If this made you laugh, please review!**


	3. M&M Retrieval

**The M &M Retrieval**

For Michele Chadwick

"Meth-head looking for munchies."

Dean pointed to the skinny man in holey jeans and a ratty shirt with red-rimmed eyes two aisles down. His squinted at the Combos and Pringles labels, as if trying to decipher a foreign language.

"Teenagers hoping their fake IDs will pass inspection." Sam pointed at a pair of girls whispering to each other in the corner, huddled together over a small white box.

Dean paused, considering, then shook his head. "Nope, first-timers looking for a pregnancy test."

One girl tucked the box under her arm, revealing a bit of pink, and they marched toward the counter.

Now Sam turned to Dean, eyebrows raised. "I don't want to know how you know that." He placed bottled water and a collection of oranges, apples, and protein bars in the shopping basket.

They'd been on the road for two days, with ten hours left to go to their destination. It was a relief to stretch their legs, and take in a little local entertainment. They had grown over the years, but the games that had begun in the backseat of the Impala hadn't changed. There just wasn't that much to do on the road.

The bell above the door chimed, and a middle-aged woman charged into the store as if she'd just shot out from a set of racing blocks, and headed directly for the ice.

"Last-minute party run," Dean declared, and dropped several bags of candy into the shopping basket.

"Yeah, but that's easy," Sam said as the clerk rang them up. "Retirement party? Bachelorette? Weekly backyard cookout?"

"House full of eight-year-old girls," Dean declared, and hefted the bag of groceries off the counter. He fished out a bag of M&Ms, not willing to wait until they got back to the car to start his sugar binge.

Sam raised his eyebrows and held the door open. "How'd you get that?"

Dean nodded to the mini-van that was still running in the parking lot. "Elsa and Anna." The two princesses smiled from a sun-shade pulled over the passenger window.

"That doesn't mean anything," Sam said.

"Hey! What the-?" Dean stared at his suddenly empty hands. The M&M's were gone, caught in the teeth of a lovely chocolate lab puppy with a blue bow perched on her collar. She shook her head, rattling the bag.

"Hey! Those are mine!" Dean reached down to get the bag back, but the pup skittered backwards. She growled playfully and woofed, dropping the bag. Dean leaned low and swiped at the bag, but the pup grabbed the candy again. Dean overbalanced and toppled to the pavement.

"Looks like you've met your match there, Dean," Sam said, not bothering to contain his laugh. "She looks pretty fierce to me. Do you need some help?"

"I got this," Dean growled. On hands and knees he reached forward again. "Come on, pup. Those are my M&Ms, and you're going to hand them over."

The puppy just shook the bag again, and danced out of his reach. She backed into the crevice between the trash can and the storefront, where Dean couldn't reach, and proceeded to paw at the bag, scattering M&Ms across the cement.

"Aw, come on!" Dean wedged his shoulder into the crack.

Sam reached into the grocery bags and unwrapped a strip of jerky. He crouched on the ground and said softly, "Here, doggie. Come and get it, girl."

The puppy's nose lifted into the air, quivered for a moment, and then the M&Ms were abandoned. The puppy landed in Sam's lap and devoured the jerky. Sam beamed at the puppy.

"No, you can't keep her." Dean said, emerging with his M&Ms. Half the bag was still intact, and Dean swallowed a entire handful jut to prove they were his now.

The woman in a hurry burst out of the door, ice, places, and ice-cream in hand. She let out a yelp and dived for the dog's leash. "Oh my gosh, she got out of the car! How did she do that? Oh, thank you!"

Dean caught the ice and plates before they spilled out of the woman's hands. "No problem, ma'am. Having a party?"

"Yes, my daughter. She's turning nine, and this little lady is her present." The woman picked up the dog, and Dean placed her purchases in the van with a smug smirk in Sam's direction.

After the van left, Dean turned to his brother and popped another M&M into his mouth. "Ha! I won that round."

"No, Dean, I'd say the dog had you beat but good."


	4. Hairy Proposition

**The Hairy Proposition**

The mall. Sleek floors, shop fronts decorated in the latest fashions, and the smell of pretzels and hot dogs. And teenagers. Groups of them circulated, small mobs of exploding hormones, giggling and eating and shopping.

It was a scene Sam and Dean rarely saw. They shopped at simpler stores, Farm and Fleet or Dickies, where the shirts came in flannel and the jeans were made to last instead of impress. The stuff they sold in these fancy shops wouldn't survive more than one hunt. Sure, they had an endless supply of fake credit cards, but they still tried to be conservative with their spending.

The vengeful spirit in the Bergner's home goods section had hardly been worth the drive. A jilted lover still looking for the perfect wedding registry items, she didn't have the strength to throw Sam or Dean across the room, only cookery. They'd left a very angry saleswoman with a floor full of shattered glass to clean up.

"Food time!" Dean declared, veering toward the food court.

"Don't you think we should get out of here? That saleswoman said she was going to call the cops."

"Nah, she probably won't." Dean eyed the menu at the pretzels stand. Hot dog wrapped in pretzel, or pretzel bites stuffed with pepperoni and dipped in cheese? So many difficult choices.

Sam hung back, as if afraid that the cholesterol and carbs would stick to him permanently.

"Hello, sir! Do you want to make some quick cash and get a free haircut?"

Sam spun around to see a small man in a designer shirt and jeans with a pair of hair-cutting scissors protruding from the breast pocket. "What?"

The concerned tone in his little brother's voice was enough to pull Dean away from the food. He took one look at the solicitor, and grinned. "I think he just offered you a proposition, Sammy!"

"I offered him a business deal. Your hair." The man reached a hand toward Sam's shiny brown locks, eyes greedy as if he was seeing dollar signs. "Virgin!"

Now Dean had to laugh, out-loud, and slapped his thigh. "Virgin? Sammy?"

"His hair, sir," the stylist said, undeterred. "Virgin hair, untouched by the heat of a dryer or iron, unsullied by product or dye. Your hair, sir, is a gold mine. Five hundred dollars if I can cut it now, another two-fifty if you come back in six months with six extra inches."

Sam took a wary step back. "You want to buy my hair?" His hand moved protectively toward his head, and his eyes flicked around the room, looking for an exit.

"Well, at least we know he only likes you for your body," Dean chortled. "Five hundred bucks, you say?"

"Only if I do the cutting, sir. We need it cut properly."

"What for?" Sam asked.

"Wigs. Most women who donate their hair have done so much to it already, we can't use it for wigs. Your hair, virgin hair, could star in the next Game of Thrones episode. Or help a cancer survivor regain their dignity." He threw the last sentence on as an afterthought. "If you don't want the money-"

"Oh, we want the money." Dean turned to Sam. "It's an easy five hundred, Sammy." After all, he'd been after Sam's hair for years.

"You can grow it out again and come back every year. I have some regular customers." The man gestured to a stool and pulled out his scissors and a wad of cash.

Sam took a step back, and nearly stepped on Dean's foot. Dean flashed him a suggestive grin and nodded encouragingly. " Dude, five hundred bucks! Go for it!"

"Dude, don't touch my hair!" Sam slipped sideways to escape the blockade. Then a mischievous spark landed in his eyes. "If you want the money, grow your hair out."

Dean's eager smile vanished.

The stylist considered Dean's hair, then shook his head. "No, he uses too much product. You'd have to stop that, to get a better price." The stylist handed Dean a card. "If he changes is mind, call me."

"What if I bring it to you?" Dean asked.

The stylist shook his head. "No, I have to cut it."

"Does he have to be conscious?"

"Dean!" Sam rolled his eyes, shook his head, and marched away. Dean grinned, tucked the card in his pocket, and jogged after his brother.

 **What do you think? Should Dean grow his hair out for cash? Should Sam get his chopped?**

 **Thanks so much for reading. Please review!**


	5. Wrong Number

**Wrong Number**

A heavy metal beat echoed through the bunker, accompanied by the rattle of a vibrating phone. Dean looked around, but the phone was not among the food and cooking utensils scattered across the kitchen counters. Frowning, Dean turned off the stove top, set down his spatula, and went to follow the ringtone.

By the time he found his phone in the library, the call had gone to voicemail. Dean listened to the message.

"This is Lebanon Emergency Medical Center. Please call us back as soon as possible."

Dean felt a familiar fear twisting through his guts as she scrambled to take down the call-back number. Where was Sam? His little brother had said something about going on a run—he could have been hit by a car. He could have run into a monster while unarmed. A hundred other possibilities spun through Dean's head. He dialed as fast as he could.

"Lebanon Emergency Medical. If this is an emergency, please dial 9-1-1. All our reception staff are busy at this time. Please leave a message and we will get back to you as soon as we are able. Please note that messages left after four pm will be returned the next business day."

"What kind of emergency medical asks you to leave a message? Yes, this is an emergency! No, I'm not dialing 9-1-1! You guys called me! Look, this is Dean Campbell, and I don't know who called, but called me but-"

"I'm sorry, your time has run out, please call back to complete your message."

Dean glowered at the phone, called back, and tried the next number on the automated menu.

"You have reached the x-ray department. If you are waiting for results, please call 555-2937. If you need your results sent to your primary care physician, please go to our website at  xray/release and follow the instructions there. For billing questions, please press 9. If you have another question or wish to speak with the nurse, please leave a message now."

"My message is too long? Shorten yours! This is Dean Campbell, returning your call. Call me!"

There were three other options on the automated menu. Dean called again and pressed 9.

"Hello! Lebanon Medical Associates."

"I thought this was Lebanon Emergency Medical?"

"Oh, yes we do the billing for them."

"They called me, I need to know why."

"I'm sorry sir, I don't have that information."

"Well then go down the hall and fine the person who made the call and-"

"I'm sorry sir, we're in a different location. We do the billing for all of the medical practices in the county."

"Are you serious? You cant—How do I get someone there to answer the phone!"

"I'm sorry, sir, I can't-"

"Can't help me. Right." Dean ended the call, glared at his phone, and tried again.

"Hello! You have reached laboratory department. For test results, press 2. To speak a nurse press 3-" Dean slammed his finger into the '3'. "Hello! You have reached the nurses line. Please leave a message and someone will return your call as soon as possible. Messages left after 4 pm will be answered on the next business day."

"It's 9 am, people! 9 am! I need a call back, and I need it now. You called me, your freaking message didn't say why you called, and I'm getting a little worried here! Who's hurt?"

Dean slammed the little red button to end the call, glared at his phone, and dialed a new number. The number he should have dialed to begin with. "Sammy?"

"Dean?" Sam's breath was coming in short gasps, but his tone was unconcerned. "What's up?"

"Sam? What's wrong?" Dean clamped his fingers over his keys, already on his way to the garage and the Impala to go to his brother.

"Wrong?" Sam sucked in another deep breath. "Dean, just because I like running-"

Dean stopped in his tracks. "You went for a run?"

"Yeah."

"And you're ok?"

"Yeah. Dean, what's going on?"

"The hospital called me! Well, not the hospital, we haven't got one in town, but the prompt care place. They said, 'call me back'! And didn't say why. I thought you gto hit by a car or something." Dean could still see the image of his brother's blood body lying on the side of the road, waiting to be found by EMTs. "Running is dangerous, you know."

Sam snorted. "Yeah. Right. But why would prompt care call us? Who do we know in town who could be there?"

"Well, besides you—I'm gonna call Cass." Never mind that Cass was an angel, he'd run into situations where he'd needed a doctor before.

"Right, I'll check on Mom."

Dean cut the call and looked up at the ceiling. _Cass! You had better have your ears on, and you have better call me ASAP! You ok_?

He dialed Lebanon Emergency Medical one more time.

"Hello! Can I help you?"

Dean was so surprised he nearly choked on his own words. "Wow! You do have staff who aren't out to lunch."

"Sir, I-"

"This is Dean Campbell. You called me. Said it was important."

"Campbell?" Dean could hear computer keys clacking in the background. "I'm sorry, we have no record of that call. Oh—wait-it looks like someone dialed a wrong number. I'm sorry, Mr. Campbell."

"Wrong number? Wrong-? Well, you could have said that! I nearly-you had better send someone out here to check me for a heart attack!"

"Sir?"

But another call was coming in, so Dean answered it. "Cass!"

"Dean, I heard you—what's wrong?"

Dean smiled and allowed himself to collapse into a chair. "Nothing. Wrong number."

"Dean, prayers can't have a wrong number-"

"Yeah—just get your feathery butt back here. I'm buying pizza." Pizza, beer, pie. They would have a party to celebrate the fact that Dean had survive the harrowing ordeal. The door to the bunker squealed on its hinges, and Dean hung up so he could go and hug his brother.


	6. Photographic Descent

**Photographic Descent**

 _Splash_!

Dean's dress shoe landed in the river, sending chilly water flying in all directions. Dean cursed, shifted his feet, and shook out his shoe, feeling a cold trickle work its way into his sock. Wonderful! This case just kept getting better and better.

Sam hopped past Dean, moving nimbly from rock to rock as he crossed the stream. Alighting on the opposite bank, he paused to wait for his brother. "You coming?"

Dean glared at the line of stepping stones arranged at an angle across the stream. "I thought this was supposed to be a trail. Shouldn't a trail have bridges?"

"Dude, it's like five inches of water."

"Yeah, and the water's friggin' cold!"

A dog splashed past him, cavorting in the chilly water and cashed by a ten-year old with a leash dangling from his hand and wading boots on. The kid splashed through the water without sparing a glance for the little bridge of rocks that his parents carefully navigated. They all turned at the trail crossing and vanished around the corner.

His socks were wet anyway, so what was the point? Dean stepped off the rock and marched through the stream, splashing all the way. He was oblivious to the beauty that surrounded them. Walls of rock smoothed by millennia of erosion were draped in moss, ferns, and hanging branches. The cliffs above were crowned with trees and the occasional head could be seen as more hikers navigated the bluff trails above. The first hints of spring were breaking through the remnants of winter ice. Tiny crocuses and snowdrops reared their heads between the rocks, roots, and creek that made up the bottom of the canyon. The narrow hiking trail ran beside the rock wall, criss-crossing the rocky stream.

Dean paused to peel off his shoes and tip water out of them before following Sam deeper into the gorge.

They came to a crossroads and ducked under the line of yellow tape and 'do not enter' sign that blocked the rockiest path. A passing hiker glowered at them, and Sam raised his FBI badge with a reassuring smile. Dean wished desperately for his jeans and flannel, but Sam had insisted on fed suits for exactly this reason.

Even if they were the only idiots on the trail wearing polyester instead of cotton.

The scene of the kill was at the back end of the gorge, just in front of the waterfall that tumbled fifty feet from the bluffs above. The corpse was long gone, although the police had left their chalk outline and bright yellow numbers that indicated where key evidence had been found. Without a word, Sam and Dean split up to examine the scene, searching for the clues no police officer would know to look for.

Dean bent over an animal track, but it was just a dog print.

"Gah!" The startled cry echoed overhead. Branches rustled as something passed through them. Dean drew his gun, too late. Something sharp bit into his skull. He smacked it away. Glass shattered and plastic parts scattered as the thing ricocheted off Dean's hand, smacked into the canyon wall, and then tumbled to rest on the rocky river bed. Dean didn't bother to watch. His attention was fixed upwards, gun pointed into the trees, watching for the next missile.

"My camera! Oh! Sorry!" The faint cry came from the bluff above and a head poked out over the cliff. "Did you see where it landed—oh! He has a gun! He has a gun!"

There was a commotion above as heads peered over the cliff to see if the madman below did indeed have a gun, then vanished again as they scrambled to get out of the line of fire. One woman remained motionless, her hands raised with palms open. "Sorry! So sorry! Are you ok?"

"He's fine." Sam's hand landed on Dean's shoulder, pulling his gun hand down. He held up the dented remains of the camera for Dean to see, then waved at the crowd above. "FBI! We're supposed to be here. We're supposed to be armed. Just startled us is all."

"Oh." The woman let out a relieved sigh, dropped her hands, and clutched at her chest. "Is—is my camera alright?"

"Your camera?" Dean shook his gun at the sky, causing the woman to duck backwards with a startled squeak. "What about my head!" Dean shoved his gun back into his belt and looked up to be greeted by Sam's most disapproving bitchface. "Let's just find what we came for and get out of here."

Sam winced. "Actually, I don't think this is our sort of thing." Sam held up his phone. "The police just posted on their social media feed that they found the body of a rabid coyote. Case solved!"

Sam smiled.

Dean glared.

"So you mean we came all the way down here for nothing? You made me go hiking in my suit for an actual rabid animal. Anything weird about the critter?"

Sam shook his head. "No. I mean, we can check it out, but—hey, at least we got to enjoy the scenery. This place was fantastic! Did you know that back in the 1800s this canyon was-"

That was when Dean stopped listening to his brother. He rolled his eyes, shook his head, and stomped back the way they had come. His shoe slipped on the rocks, and he landed butt first in the creek. Sam's laughter echoed all the way to the top of the bluff.

 **Please Review!**


	7. Heat Treatment

**Heat Treatment**

The day was hot, but that was no surprise. Every day was hot here in Death Valley. Even in September, when other parts of the country boasted chilly mornings and crisp days, the ground here still simmered.

No, the scorching sun and the sweat dripping off of his back was not what had Ranger Morris worried. He looked up from his desk as yet another group of tourists passed by the gift shop, chattering about the naked sunbathers out in the valley.

Idiots.

With a sigh, the Ranger picked up his hat. Time to do his job, clean up the park and keep the sights decent for the visitors.

Ranger Morris had seen some stupid shit in his time. Twenty years on the job, and he knew how tourists could be. They wall wanted to see the thermometer climb to record-highs. They wanted to touch the salty ground, the reflective properties being one of the reasons this small patch of ground was always so hot. They wanted to say they had been here, and they wanted the full experience.

He had seen sunburns happen in less than an hour. He had handed out more sunscreen and aloe vera than he could count. He had called the ambulance for a case of heat stroke at least every month.

But never in his twenty years as Ranger had he heard of anyone being stupid enough to try to sunbathe out here. Most people had the common sense to know that hot meant burn and burn meant keep your clothes on!

That, and most people didn't want to have to register as sex offenders for the rest of their lives for breaking public nudity laws.

The rumors had to be an exaggeration.

o0o

Sam should have known better than to let Dean do the shopping. He had been preoccupied with prepping his laptop, removing the battery and turning it off so that the device would not overheat in the Death Valley sun. Then, he had been busy purchasing the food.

He should have known, when Dean trusted him with selecting the beer, that something was up.

But he didn't stop to think about it until they had left the little convenience store and, several miles down the road, were getting ready to change at the small pit stop that only offered a bathroom, water, and vending machine.

Sam stripped out of his clothes quickly and efficiently, tossing them all directly into the garbage can. He'd worn his rattiest, torn, blood-stained shirts that were ready for the rag-pile, keeping his newer clothes tucked away in his bag in the Impala.

Everything that wasn't in the car had to go in the garbage. Not one stitch could remain, not even their underwear. Dean had insisted, and Sam' wasn't arguing. He had been the one to find the first bedbug, after all. And after realizing that their motel room, and now ever item they owned, was infested, Dean had driven faster than Sam had ever seen him drive before straight to the hottest spot on earth.

 _Burn the bastards_.

That's what John Winchester had said when Sam was eight. He remembered sitting in his underwear in the laundromat, watching his Dad load everything they owned in a dryer while Dean took the rest out back to be burned in the garbage bin.

 _They're just like any other monster, son. Bedbugs are small vampires, and just like a vampire, they've got a weakness. Heat_.

120 degrees for at least twenty minutes, to be precise. Everything that the Winchester brothers owned had to be heat-treated or tossed out.

Which was why they were here, changing in the pit-stop restrooms, tossing their clothes in the trash, while the Impala sat parked outside, taking in the Death Valley sun.

Sam opened the bag Dean had given him and stared. _No!_ But there was no mistake. All that lay inside the bag was one speedo in a pale skin-tone.

"Not funny, Dean!" Sam growled through the stall door.

"What?" Dean asked in his best innocent tone. "Wrong size?"

"Where's the rest?" Sam demanded.

"Sammy, our clothes will be just fine once they're treated. We didn't need to buy a whole new wardrobe."

Uh-huh. Somehow, Sam was pretty sure his brother hand more than a skin-colored speedo to wear.

Yep. As Sam stepped out of his stall, he saw Dean wearing brightly colored swim trunks and a loose Hawaiian shirt. "Where's my shirt?"

"Dude, you know the rules. You put your contaminated clothes back on, you don't get back in the car. Or the bunker."

Sam glared.

Dean grinned. Then he tossed his brother a beach towel. "Come on, let's find some shade."

o0o

Sunblock, check. Annoyed little brother, check. Beer, check. Shade, check.

Dean stretched back in the hammock that he had strung up between two posts under the awning of the rest stop. Sam sat beside him in a reclining lawn chair. He was very stubbornly not talking to his brother, flipping through a brochure instead. There wasn't anything else to read because both the computer and the books were locked up in the car. Sam had given up trying to keep himself covered with the towel. It was so hot that even in the shade, the lawn chair was warm to the touch. After shifting around for a few uncomfortable minutes, Sam had draped the towel over the chair.

That had set the tourists who passed by whispering to each other, and Sam had garnered more than a few meaningful winks from the ladies. Yet he remained with his nose firmly planted in the brochure that Dean was pretty sure he had read through at least three times by now.

Dean cast a careful eye over his baby. She was parked by the side of the road, her black hood gleaming in the sunlight, a small thermometer taped to the inside of the window. Dean had checked the temperature a few minutes ago, and they were getting close to the critical point.

The temperature which bedbugs could not survive.

Dean's skin crawled at the thought of having spent the entire night on a bed infested with the tiny, evil, disgusting insects. They would not infest his Baby.

A car with official looking lettering detailed on the side pulled up, and a park ranger stepped out. He spotted Sam and Dean and made his way over to them. He eyed Sam carefully, and Sam hastily sat up straight and pulled the towel over his waist.

"Ranger."

"Gentlemen. I heard stories of someone sunbathing in the nude out here."

Sam's face turned red.

"Not nude, Ranger! We wouldn't do that. But Sammy here is pretty particular when it comes to fabric. Sensitive skin, you know. He also said he wanted the 'full Death Valley experience', to really feel the heat in every pore. I told him to put his shirt on." Dean pulled a second Hawaiian shirt from the hiding space where he had stashed it inside the Styrofoam cooler he had brought with the beers.

Sam snatched it out of his hands with a patented glare.

"That delicate skin's gonna burn in this heat," Dean finished with a chuckle.

"It's a swimsuit. I'm wearing a-" Sam stammered as he pulled on the shirt.

"Mm-hm." The Ranger raised his eyebrows at Dean's satisfied smirk, then gestured at the hammock and the lawn chair. He couldn't call it sunbathing because they weren't in the shade. "This place isn't for loitering, and you can't park there." He pointed to the Impala.

Dean had angled Baby so she was sitting off on the shoulder so as not to block the parking spots for the rest of the tourists.

"Well, sir, if you don't like her where she is, you can move her." Dean picked the keys up from where they lay on top of the Styrofoam cooler he had purchased at the gas station. Their regular cooler was in the car, cooking with the rest of their belongings. "I just hope you don't mind bedbugs."

The Ranger stared. "Bedbugs?"

"Yeah." Dean went over to peer through the window at the thermometer. 125 and climbing. "We'll be outta here in about twenty minutes, sir."

The ranger glanced at the car, then back at the Winchesters. "Right. Well. Take your time."

Dean smiled. "Thank you, sir!"

o0o

It wasn't until the last beer was gone that Dean finally decided to crawl out of his hammock. He lifted up the cooler full of melted ice and poured the lukewarm water over his head. Grabbing up his keys, he went to check on the Impala.

"Ow!" Dean gasped and jumped backward as sharp pain bit into his hand. Behind him, he could hear his brother laughing.

"You know, Dean, when the car is hot enough to kill bedbugs on the inside, the outside..."

"Shut up and give me your towel," Dean growled, sucking his burned hand.

"No." Sam hitched the towel around his waist and crossed his arms, waiting to see what his brother would do.

"Sammy, we can't go home if I can't get into the car!" Dean said. He pulled at his shirt but, now that it was wet, it would not protect him against the car door's overheated handle. He stared at the Impala. He was standing two feet from her, and he couldn't even touch her.

"I can wait. Besides, this pamphlet is riveting. I bet if I read it again I'll find something I missed." Sam smiled.

Dean scowled. "I'm bored, I'm hungry, and I'm hot! I wanna go home!" Dean looked down at his car. "Hasn't Baby been through enough? She had bedbugs for crying out loud! She needs to hit the road, get a bit of fresh air, have a wash when we get home."

"Your shorts are still dry."


	8. Eg-No-Ra-Moose

**Who's the eg-no-ra-moose now?**

NOTE: Fourteen pegs. Fifteen holes set in a triangle. You can only move a peg by jumping it over another peg, which you then remove from the board. Move and remove pegs until only one is left. This is the classic 'peg game' found at every table in every Cracker Barrel restaurant in the US, and plenty of other small-town restaurants as well.

I figure, with as much time as Sam and Dean spend on the road, they've had a few encounters with the 'peg game'.

* * *

Dinnertime. It was Dean's favorite time of day. It was time to kick back, relax and spend a few minutes simply enjoying something. A few minutes when he didn't have to worry about the hunt, or the fate of the world. His only task was to clean his plate.

But first he had to decide what to put on that plate. Dean read over the menu carefully. Did he want a cheeseburger today? Maybe not. This restaurant boasted several other options. The meatloaf plate that a sever had just carried past them had made Dean's mouth water, but there were also chicken and dumplings boasting home-made noodles. He could get a serving of both. With extra bacon on the side, because bacon was good with everything. He had time enjoy a full meal. They were waiting for Bobby to join them, and the old scrapper had been delayed by road work.

Across the table, Sam was hunched over a small, triangular piece of wood filled with pegs. He hopped the pegs one over the other, almost like a solitaire version of checkers, until there were four left but none of the pegs were standing close enough to each other to make another move.

Dean smirked. "Doesn't that make you an 'Eg-No-Ra-Moose?'" He craned his neck to read the rules written on the side of the peg board. "Ha! Maybe Crowley was right."

Sam glared at his brother. "Oh yeah? Let's see you do better?"

"Right." Dean put down his menu and reached over to the empty table next to them to grab another peg game. Sam refilled his pegs and started again. He moved the pegs carefully, slowly considering each move.

Dean hopped one peg over the other without a second thought and presented his board, with one peg standing, to Sam a moment later.

"See, not hard at all!"

Sam stared at the empty peg board, then at his brother. "You cheated."

"Did not!"

"Did to."

"Fine. It was fluke. Do it again."

Dean glared at his brother and bent over the peg board, hopping one peg over another until there were no pegs left standing next to each other. But there were still three pegs on the board.

"Huh."

"Well, I guess you're 'just plain dumb,'" Sam said, reading the label on the game. He showed Dean his own board, with two pegs left. "Looks like I'm 'purty smart.'"

"Ha! You wish. You can't do it again."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah! Best two out of three." Dean's hands hovered over the board, his eyes flashing a challenge at his younger brother.

"Oh, that's how you wanna play?" Sam pulled his phone out of his pocket and started a timer. "Best two out of three. Speed counts."

"Um—can I take your order?" The server stood by the table, a pad of paper in hand.

Dean spared her a sideways glance. What had he wanted? He couldn't remember. "Bacon."

Sam snorted. "Seriously?"

"Yeah! And you know—just bring me something good." Dean's gaze was focused on the peg board, trying to plot out a strategy before Sam started the timer.

"Um-"

"He'll have the sampler, I'll have a salad, extra bacon on the side, and a consolation piece of pie for when I beat my brother."

The server's eyebrows climbed to her hairline. "What kind of pie?"

"Cake!" Dean said. He had three moves plotted, and was itching to get started before he forgot his plan. "For when I beat my brother."

"Ha! You wish."

"No Sam, I know."

"Salad and a sampler, coming up." The server shook her head and turned away. She had better things to do.

Sam and Dean leaned over the table, eyes locked. "Ready?"

"Ready."

"Go!" Sam slapped the timer and they both started moving pegs furiously.

"Done!" Dean yelled half a minute later. He raised his hands and displayed his board with three pegs left.

"I still win." Sam tossed his last peg aside and showed Dean his board with only two pegs standing.

"No. I win. I finished first."

"But I had less pegs."

"Ok, so who won?"

"I don't know." Sam scratched his head and pulled out a pad of paper. "Look. Let's give one point per ten seconds and one point per peg you remove."

Dean nodded, the frowned. "But then we tied."

"I guess that means we go again."

Ten rounds later, Dean's sampler platter was getting cold and Sam's salad was wilting under the dressing. Dean munched on a piece of bacon and glared at his peg board as if it had offended him.

"Seriously! How do you leave only one peg?"

"You did it before!" Sam said. He was frowning at his own board, which still had two pegs left. Neither of them had managed to get their board down to only one peg again. Beside him was a sheet of paper filled with tally marks and an ever-increasing list of rules for scoring. He wasn't quite sure who was in the lead anymore.

"Yeah, but I have no idea how!"

"Where's my dinner?" Bobby had arrived at their table, a scowl on his face. "Didn't you get my texts?"

"Ah-" Dean hastily looked at his phone and saw three missed texts in which Bobby told them exactly what to order for him so that the food would be ready when he arrived. "Oops. Sam and I got caught up in something."

Bobby frowned at the pegs scattered across the table. "Something important?"

Sam looked sheepishly down at his board. "Uh-"

Bobby rolled his eyes. "Idjits."

"Actually, according to this, I'm 'purty smart!" Dean held up his peg board with two pegs left.

Bobby took the peg board, replaced the pegs, and then proceeded to hop them one after the other right off the board until only one was left. Then, Bobby took Sam's game board and did it again. He pushed the peg board away and claimed Dean's sampler plate for himself.

"Idjit."


	9. Disturbance

This one has Wee!chesters. Sam is twelve. Dean is sixteen.

 **Disturbance**

 _Knock! Knock! Knock!_

The fist banging at the door was loud and insistent. Dean stirred and glared blearily at the clock. 2 am. He frowned at the empty bed next to him. Sam wasn't here. The kid had gone off to a party. A pool party and sleepover at the local hotel. The nice hotel on the other side of town, the one with free breakfast and clean rooms.

All of the kids in Sam's class were excited about spending the night at a hotel. As if that was a treat. Sam had been excited about the pool, and with as hot as this September had been, Dean couldn't blame him. He'd thought about offering to chaperone so he could take a dunk himself, but the glare in Sam's eyes had made that suggestion die on his lips. Sam was reaching the age where 'big brother' was no longer 'cool.' The kid wanted to do things on his own.

So Dean had bought a pair of swim trunks for the kid and waved his brother off around 6 last night.

The party wasn't over until 10 am.

 _Knock! Knock! Knock!_

A flash of red and blue light filtered through the curtain. Dean squinted in the darkness. Cops? Dean was pretty sure he hadn't done anything illegal lately. They had paid for this room in cash, so there was not credit card for the police to get angry about.

Could this have something to do with the party?

No way. What could a gang of twelve-year-olds get up to that would draw the cops?

Plenty. Dean knew from experience. But Sammy wasn't that kind of kid.

Or so Dean had thought.

He pulled the door open to see a man in blue uniform, big and beefy and nearly as tall as Dad with a stern look on his face. The cop had a hand on Sam's shoulder, his shaggy hair falling in his eyes as he stared at his toes.

 _Oh, Sammy, what did you do?_

"Does this belong to you?" the cop asked. No interrogation about where Dad was, no stern discussion about what Sam had done. "Party got shut down."

Dean grabbed Sam by the shoulder and pulled him to his side. "Yep. The kid belongs here. What did a bunch of twelve-year-olds get up to that got a party shut down?"

Most twelve -year-olds couldn't get their hands on the kinds of things that got the cops involved.

Sam shot the cop a warning look. The cop's stern demeanor cracked into a hint of a grin for half a second before slamming back into place. "Apparently, the chaperone decided to leave early. We can't have a bunch of minors unaccompanied at a hotel."

"Right." But what on earth had the minors done to get noticed in the first place? Cops didn't get called just because there were kids around.

The cop had better things to do. He gave Sam a small wave and turned to leave. "Keep yourself out of trouble, Winchester."

Sam rolled his eyes and nodded.

After the door was closed Dean spun his brother around to face him. "What happened at that party, Sammy? Booze? Weed? I mean, things have to get serious before the cops come."

Sam rolled his eyes again. "Nothin'."

Dean frowned, his gaze homing on on a red, puffy spot on Sam's cheek. That was going to turn into a serious bruise tomorrow. "A fight?" Dean scanned his brother up and down and noted that the edge of his shirt was torn and there were scratch marks up his arm. "Sammy, what happened?"

Sam shrugged away from Dean's grasp and shook his head. "I'm fine, Dean! Nothin' bad happened. Somebody thought we were making too much noise, that's all."

That was not the voice of a kid who was scared or hurt. That was the voice of a kid who didn't want his big brother to find out something potentially embarrassing.

"Uh-huh." Dean went to the fridge and fetched and ice pack, which he placed over Sam's cheek. "Who beat you up?"

Sam's scowl turned indignant. "He didn't beat me!"

Dean smirked. "Good."

Dean opened his mouth to as more questions, but Sam looked up at Dean with those wide puppy-eyes that mean he was about to ask for something. Dean felt his heart wobble, as it did every time Sam used that expression.

"Can we just go to bed? I'm tired."

Dean couldn't argue with that, so he made Sam finish out ten more minutes with the ice pack and then flicked off the light. Dean burrowed back into his bed, but from the sound of it Sam just flopped himself fully-clothed on top of the covers. His eyes remained open, staring at the ceiling.

Like he was waiting for something.

After twenty minutes, something arrived. A face appeared in the window of their motel room, hovering near the bottom where the glass was open to let a cool breeze through the screen.

"Let's finish this, Winchester!" The challenge came out in a hushed whisper.

Sam needed no more prompting. He slid off the bed silently, then glanced at Dean, who closed his eyes and lay very, very still. Sam went to the kitchen to grab something out of the drawer, then slipped the chain off the door and went outside to meet his foe.

 _Sammy, you've got a knife better than anything in that kitchen_! What was the kid up to?

Voices drifted through the window.

"We gotta be quiet this time. We don't want the cops again."

"The cops only came because of that stupid lady and her stupid yappy dog! No one here is gonna care!"

"They might! Besides, you'll wake my brother."

Dean snorted. Too late for that. He slipped his gun out from under his pillow and went to the kitchen to see what was missing from the silverware drawer.

Spoons. Every single spoon was gone.

What?

A soft slapping sound came through the window. Dean knew that sound from the poker table. Cards were being shuffled and dealt.

Had Sammy been caught gambling? Had he gotten on the wrong side of a bad bet?

 _Uh-oh._

"You're S-P. You've got S-P-O-O."

"Nu-uh! That one didn't count! I only let go because the cops were there!"

"He's right about that."

There were more than boys out there, all talking in hushed voices.

"Ok, you'v got one O. You're on N! And I'm still on S." That was Sam, sounding very, very proud of his 'S'. Whatever that meant.

Dean went to the door and paused with his palm on the handle, still listening carefully to the sounds through the window. The steady, rhythmic slap of cards grew faster and faster. That didn't sound like poker. There was no call for new cards, no discussion of bets.

Dean was about ready to go crane his head out the window when action exploded outside. It was muffled, the boys doing their best to keep quiet, and if Dean wasn't a hunter he likely wouldn't have noticed the scuff of a shoes against the asphalt or the grunt as someone had the wind knocked out of them.

Time to find out what was happening. Sam didn't need another black eye tonight. Dean swung the door open, and stared. Two boys wrestled across the parking lot, each clutching the same shiny silver spoon. It glinted in the streetlight. On the sidewalk, Sam and another boy stood by, each holding their own spoon and a handfull of cards.

"Keep it quiet!" Sam hissed at his friend, oblivious to the fact Dean was standing in the doorway behind him.

The boys rolled across an oil spill, not seeming to care that they were now covered in grime, each determined to keep his grip on the prized spoon. Then they backed into a car, a newer model, the type equipped with an alarm.

The horn blared across the parking lot, beeping over and over again as the headlights flashed. The boys froze. Then someone yelled.

"Run!"

Both boys let got of the spoon and hurtled for the motel room. Sam and his friend on the sidelines ducked for cover, too. They crowded past Dean without a second glance and all fell into a huddle under the window, panting.

"That's S for you, Tyler! You're out!" One of the boys chimed, pointing at the kid who had dropped the spoon first.

"We let go at the same time!"

"Yeah, so you both lose! Right Winchester?"

"Uh-yeah." Sam wasn't listening. He was staring up at Dean with worried eyes. Eyes that said _Please! Please don't laugh_.

"Let me get this straight." Dean pointed at finger at the boys. "You made so much noise at the hotel playing a card game that the cops had to come and break it up? Because you were wrestling over a spoon?"

All four boys nodded.

Dean threw back his head and laughed. "What kind of card game uses a spoon?"

"The best game ever!" Sam's friend declared vehemently. "You've never heard of Spoons?"

Dean shook his head, and was met with looks of pity from three boys.

"Then you gotta play!"

"He can't play, he's too big!"

The boys considered Dean for a moment. "He can play one-handed."

"You can't play one-handed!"

"He could have a five-second delay."

"We could tie his shoelaces together!"

Clearly, this game was happening, and it was happening tonight.

"I'll do one-handed," Dean said.

Sam stared at his brother. "You're gonna play Spoons? But you said the only real card game is poker."

"Yeah. Well, a card game that involves a wrestling match is a card game I gotta try."

Outside, someone had managed to turn the car alarm off, and was now griping about 'young hooligans'.

One of the boys scowled. "We gotta keep it down. My mom's gonna be real mad if the cops bring me home twice in one night."

"Ok. New rule. He who makes noise gets a letter," Dean said.

The rules were agreed upon and someone fetched the cards from outside. Sam pulled a spare spoon from his pocket and Dean was introduced to the game that had rocked the foundations of the local middle school. Four cards. One less spoons than there were players. Four of a kind and you can grab a spoon. Once the first spoon is taken, anyone can snatch one. Last player without a spoon gets a letter. Spell SPOONS you loose.

Within ten minutes Dean had earned an elbow to the ribs, had his shirt ripped in two places, and had earned himself an S.

Sam was good at this. He was like a fish wriggling in your hand until suddenly the spoon was gone and you didn't quite know how.

Dean glared at his brother, who was holding onto the winning spoon, while the boys around him cackled with glee. Sam's laugh died in his throat. He could see the look in his brother's eye. It had just been a fun game until now.

Now it was war.

 _Knock! Knock!_ A firm fist thumped at the door again.

"We didn't make a sound!" One of the kids hissed.

Dean went to stare out the peephole. The same cop who had dropped Sam off was back, and behind him stood the gentleman who owned the fancy car with the fancy alarm.

 _Ooops_. Dean opened the door with his best 'no problems here sir!' grin. "Can I help you, officer?"

The cop held up a dirty spoon, the one that had been dropped in the run from the screaming car.

"Gee, thanks! You guys are awesome! I didn't even know we had lost that yet." Dean took the spoon back with a smile. "Great work, officer!"

The officer looked over Dean's shoulder at the explosion of cards that littered the motel room floor, and four sets of hopeful eyes that stared back at him.

"We didn't make a sound!"

One kid pointed to the duct tape that had been placed over his mouth after he'd earned a letter for making noise.

The officer looked like he was choking on a laugh for a moment, but his face remained stern and impassive. He waggled the dirty spoon at them. "Just-keep it down this time."


End file.
